WHY I MIGHT MAKE A BAD SOUTHERNER BUT A GREAT LOTTERY WINNAH!

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Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, STFU Friday, TMI? Says who! | Posted on 07-03-2012

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Ever since I returned home from Florida, I’ve been plotting in my mind about how I can get back there. I’m not having vacation withdrawal, I’m having weather withdrawal. I know, it’s ridiculous. I’m not saying it’s like I’m up here on the chain gang or something—I love my life here—the people, my house, the gig I’ve got going. It’s unarguably one of the prettiest areas in the country. It’s just that I am telling you, even though I was born and raised right outside Boston and now live in New Hampshire, I swear, this is not where I’m meant to be. Someone in my ancestry took a way wrong turn! So me going somewhere warm for a week is like giving a junkie a crack hit and then taking it all awayyyyy. (That ‘splains why I’m all shaky and shivery and shouty and stabby right now.)

See, I h.a.t.e. the cold. And the older I get, the more I hate it. Being cooped up inside while I *know*  (warm weather people reading my blog–please forgive my tone as I’m relatively sure it’s temporary insanity) other people (me-ow!) are drinking in the aroma of  fresh cut grass while they swim outside makes me ca-rabby. Booooooo.  So….I might have bought a lottery ticket this week. Or three. I know. I know. That’ s a game plan, right? Stay tuned to watch me get struck by lightning!

But I’ve been thinking. It’s probably better this way, that I live in the land of Vitamin D deficiency. If I moved south of the Mason-Dixon line, think about all the bad things that could happen:

1. Melanoma would surely ensue, because let’s review, I vacillate between the color of sugar and flour. And hell, living in the cold is surely better than swimming with the fishes. Maybe it’s for my own good I’m locked up half the year?

2. If I wanted to ensure I ward off melanoma, I’d probably A. bankrupt myself buying Coppertone and B. blind the neighbors with my doughgirl Irish skin…I’d have to provide them with those eclipse glasses. They’d probably throw garlic at me and no one would talk to me at block parties as I stand in the corner drinking my beer out of my Canadian souvenir cup. They’d be all, “Tacky tourist!” and start singing, “One of these things is not like the o-ther!”

3. If I encountered someone rude or surly down south while buying my case of Coppertone, I’d likely blurt out, “Awww, you’re just pissed we won the war!” and stomp off like I did in Pensacola once. And that’s not how a lady should act! (Hey, she started with ME!)

4. I think I’d have night terrors about the bugs. Dude. The bugs. They need their own zip code down there. I saw a bug on the ground at Epcot and it was so stinking big it attracted a crowd. Ok, a crowd of little boys but still. (Seriously. You pay Walt through the nose to get in to go on rides created by literal geniuses, and there are all these boys staring at this…..thing….When the bug is the wow factor at Epcot, that bug ain’t right.) I can only say it was so honkingly huge, I told the boys I thought we could fly home on it. EEEEH.

5. Let’s not underestimate what a challenge it would be to live in a climate where there would be virtually little to no chance of masking the muffin top with a toasty, roasty cable Lands’ End nerd herd sweater or fleece? I’m down with down, yo! Wearing that shizz down there would probably create an international incident when the feds started tailing me thinking I’m all up to no good hiding contraband in my coat on a hot day. “Sorry, officer, no! Please don’t take me away! I don’t have ANY weapons under here—just my muffin top! I love my fami-leee….Noooo! How will I Facebook from the clink?????”

On the other hand…hmm…prison time. Three squares, no worrying about what to cook, no one recoiling at my cooking. Lots of time to pump iron and bond with other chicks—far cry from the frat house. And I’m sure in no time I could get an online MBA, master license plate making, or become an internet reverend! Mama would be proud!

On second thought, maybe I should go turn the heat up and go check those lottery numbers………..

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS DUDE? YUP, STILL AN ASSHAT!

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Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, STFU Friday | Posted on 04-11-2010

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It’s coming….again. I first posted this letter a year ago, but I think it bears repeating: daylight savings dude?  I. Hate. You. Yes, I know, hate is a strong word. It’s a word I tell my kids not to use, my mother told me not to use, and her mother before her.

What can I tell you?

I’m prepared to burn with the baddies in hell, but at least we’ll all know where I stand on pressing issues of our time.

AHHH SHITSKY, IT'S THAT TIME AGAIN?

Dear man who invented daylight savings,

I don’t know who you are, where you come from, or what you look like.

You could be as adorable as John Krasinski (Who I would totally leave the hubs for–shhh–don’t tell him! Cuz he might just drop me on the dude’s door and then what? I don’t have anything to wear! ), as funny as Vince Vaughan, and as philanthropic as Bill Gates. Well good for you. I really don’t know and I really don’t care.

The only thing I do know….is that you don’t have kids. Because if you did, you would never, ever, EVER have created daylight savings.

I don’t like you.

You’re a mean man. A mean, mean, Meanie McMeanie of a man.

I know that’s harsh. It is.

And I know I have a bit of a reputation now, what with my imagined corn on the cob rage from the supermarket,  but I really am a nice, kind person. I have a sense of humor even. But I see no humor in what you have concocted.

Year after year, you package daylight savings as this fantastic opportunity to grab an extra hour of sleep, and I bought it up until I had kids. Now I know what you’re selling is a lie. I’m onto you and the whole, ugly truth.

Listen here guy, nothing in life is free, not even sleep! That faux hour of sleep you trick me into thinking I’m getting every year? Yeah, I end up paying dividends for it! See, when you make us “fall back” and turn the clocks back one hour in Autumn, it wreaks havoc on the internal clock of every child in this house. (And I dare say America, but I have no proof… and I’d hate to make a false assertion—unlike YOU!)

When my kids wake up on daylight savings morning and I think, “Wow, they slept til 7. Yahooie!” It’s a lie. It’s really just 6 AM renamed 7 AM. It’s still 6 AM! No one really slept in after all! See, getting up at 6 AM with three little boys and calling it 7 AM, doesn’t really make it any more fun.

And you know what else? It’s even LESS fun on day two….when the baby starts cockadoodledoo-ing at 4:50 AM. Yes AM! That’s ten til 5. AM. Even the birds aren’t awake yet. Throw in the other two who start chirping at half past the ass crack of five, and I am wishing you some very, very bad karma, sir. (Yet, why do I picture you slumbering peacefully on 400 thread count sheets on some ginormous California king bed somewhere, ALONE,while my morning routine falls apart around me?)

On daylight savings day, when I have to put my baby down for his nap at 8 AM new time, 9 AM old time, it really gets confusing. By early afternoon, I’m stopping in my tracks to figure out what time it really is, and trying to calculate when I should put him down for his afternoon nap while keeping bedtime in mind. I look from the microwave to my watch to the wall clock and forget which clock I changed (maybe I’d be a little more alert had I REALLY gotten more sleep!) and get flummoxed for a second. I realize I’m no NASA scientist but I can tell time, I assure you. Except…on the day we change the clocks. And don’t EVEN get me started when I find myself having a mini panic attack a week later in my car— when I’m finally getting used to the change and freak we’re an hour late for something because it’s the one clock I forgot to change!

WAIT. WHERE AM I? NO WAIT. WHAT TIME IS IT????

By dinner time at 6 PM on time change day, I’m wondering why the baby is doing head bobs into his applesauce and realize, “Shoot! It’s really 7, he should be getting ready for bed right now!” Add a toddler and a 4 year old who are hopped up on candy from Halloween, and a freaky full moon, and you’ve got a perfect parental storm.

So, I just want to know…what did we parents ever do to you? Because not only have you robbed us of precious sleep in the morning (Might I add…you’ve robbed the most sleep deprived of their sleep….you’ve taken from those who can least afford it! How low can you go?), you’ve blown any chance we have of taking our kids out to play after afternoon naps. Soon it will be dark at 4 pm around here. Never mind what it does to my personal psyche, it’s kinda hard to kick the ball with our kids when we can’t even see the ball. It’s rough getting up the steps to the slide when we don’t know where the steps are! (And besides, my kids are afraid the dark. And I might be too. A little bit.)

See, that extra hour of sun streaming into my kids bedrooms in the morning? Not helpful. We really could use the daylight later in the day when it’s time to blow off steam. We’re not really saving our daylight at all….we’re paying for it on the back end. Why? Because now witching hour has to take place indoors. We might have to turn on the tv, and depending on how ugly things get, some days mommy might need to take a drink.

It’s.all.your.fault.

This daylight savings is for what? What is your point, exactly? Someone told me it’s so the farmers can have more daylight to work. Nothing against farmers, I know they are extremely hardworking and, snap!, they provide food for my family, but good or bad, there are more strip malls than farmers around these parts!!

My friend summed it up almost perfectly this morning, “Yesterday was the longest day EVER.” But it’s not the longest day ever, it’s the longest week ever! It will take AT LEAST a week of calculated effort to clean up your time change mess!

I don’t know what else to say to you, except you better spend the next six months thinking about how you can make it up to us in spring! Oh, and daylight savings dude? You are hereby awarded an STFU sammie…..and I’ll give it to you at whatever damn well time I please

Regards,

Muffintopmommy (and friends)

STOP! YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS! LET'S TALK ABOUT IT OVER A BEER? PLEAAAASSSEEE!!

SWAG BAG? IF YOU INSIST!

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Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Mom-ness, STFU Friday, Suburban Madness | Posted on 28-10-2010

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I can’t lie. He had me at quilted and monogrammed.

If there is porn for muffintopmommy? It starts with quilted, builds to monogrammed, and ends with shoes.

What?

If I had to work the corner, we all know my abilities would be limited. But? I would…..happily! With earnest! And conviction!

WORK.FOR.PURSES.

Lemme ‘splain. I received an email from a gentleman from Simply-Bags early last week, asking me if I’d like to receive a quilted! Monogrammed tote bag! Free! For a small mention on my website. Behold:

HI, SIMPLY-BAGS? WHERE'VE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE!

Would I what? The free? The what? The bag? The who?

HELL YEAH!

There’s a word for this. Serendipity.

Now, if you’ve been with me since the beginning, you all know I don’t tout products. I’ve received a few offers to do so, but nothing struck my fancy. (Translation: they were cleaning products and they’re lucky I didn’t STFU sammie them over their offers. Clearly they don’t read my blog if they wanted ME to recommend a cleaning product! Really. How many ways can I say I’m buds with my dust bunnies? ) And frankly, I sniffed, that’s not what my blog is about. I like to think I’m all about the writing. This here is serious biz minus the snark, the beer, the high brow commentary on cream,  Costco, and swimsuit shopping.

But to hell with all that! Purses! That are quilted! And monogrammed! A product I believe in!

In other words, you can’t fight nature, people. (Do you remember me blogging about the mommy purse last year?) I don’t remember much from Physics, but I think it’s called gravitational pull or some such thing. See, once upon a time, I actually had a bag mule. I did. One of my bf’s from college came to visit me resplendent in quilted, monogrammed goodness. Breathless, I demanded to know the deets of where I could get one.

“A mall kiosk in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.”

Whachutalkinboutwillis?

Once I got over the utter shock anything that fab could coexist with Cinnabon and a cheeseball sunglass stand, I realized it was a long ride from NH for cheap chic, even for me. I phoned in my order to Ange, she called me from said mall kiosk, shipped me my goods, and I sent her some dough. A mule was born!

So as only a great bf would do, Ange sent me a surprise quilted, monogrammed bag at Christmas. Then, I visited her and made her drive me directly to said mall kiosk where I loaded up (Back when luggage was free— thanks cheapo airlines!).  I literally didn’t know where I could find anything like this at home. (By the way, when I texted Ange to ask if she minded appearing in an MTM blog post about purses, she texted back, “In what context? As the woman who encouraged your addiction to accessories?”)

A little verbose for a text, but guilty as charged!

But now fun, budget friendly, quilted and monogrammed bags are only a mouse click away for all of us in the US and Canada— when visiting a mall kiosk next to a Cinnabon in North Carolina just won’t do!

A few quick emails back and forth to Simply-Bags, and here I am, awash in my very own, red, quilted, monogrammed swag bag! The bag….is the swag. The swag is the BAG! WOOT!

ISN'T SHE LOVELY? ISN'T SHE WON-DER-FUL?

She? Is glorious! First of all, the red makes me feel extra sassy. And they can do the monogram in silver, chocolate brown, or black against this soft, velvety material. I chose black because I thought the red and black might be a fun combo for stepping out over the holidays.  And the hobo style? HOL-LA! The widest part hits…..right at the muffin top. Simply-Bags? You are simply genius.

And at 20″ X 14″? Well, let’s just say we can call it the Runaway Mommy Survival Bag, because mommy has room in this bag for a change of clothes, makeup, trashy mag, Diet Coke (or wine? or 6 pack?), and Homegoods gift card. Field trip? Jail break? You decide.

The possibilities are endless. Other ideas for the bag?

1. Chic diaper bag. Natch, this is a no brainer.

2. Grown up happy hour? Throw in some wine, cheese, bread..

OH THERE IS PLENTY MORE ROOM IN THIS BAG!

3. Football party? Beer, chips, jar of salsa.

4. Loving some environment? Use the bag to hold shopping items….(Wait, that sounds vaguely like shoplifting….After you pay of course! )

You can be like me, and it will be all fab on the outside, but chock full o’ momness on the inside….tampons, Matchboxes, and stale gum, oh my! You can dress mommy up………but well, you know the rest.

How would you use this bag?

SOMEONE WANTS TO HAVE A THREE WAY? OH STFU!

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Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, STFU Friday | Posted on 02-09-2010

DOROTHY, WE ARE A LONG WAY FROM HOME!

Who knew?

Muffintopmommy is a sexpot.

Stop squinting.

For the love of God, what don’t you get?

 S-E-X-P-O-T.

El potto de sexo.

Oh don’t you let the short hair, Lands’ End cardigans, and Tretorns fool you. I think it’s fairly obvious if you read between the lines on this blog, my intentions are clear . If you saw me at Tarjay with the 7 pack of Hanes Her Way grannie panties in my cart with the generic Tostitos, well, that’s my cover. See, I’m bringing sexy back.

TRETORNS. SING WITH ME NOW....DON'T YOU WISH YOUR GIRLFRIEND WAS HOT LIKE ME?

All along, I’ve been trolling for a three way. If you don’t believe me, just read the following email I received at my email addy, janet@muffintopmommy.com. (My comments are in CAPS.)

Hello,

My name is Mike Pervity Perv (Name changed in case his poor mom ever sees this blog!), I represent the adult dating sites SexDatePersonals.com and http://www.thehornymatches.com. WHOA DUDE, YOU REALLY ARE ALL ABOUT CUTTING TO THE CHASE JUST LIKE YOUR DATING SITE. TIME’S A WASTING! MATCH.COM AND EHARMONY? WHO HAS TIME TO FIND OUT IF SOMEONE LIKES PINA COLADAS AND GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN? BTW MIKE? I DO HAVE HALF A BRAIN. I’M A LEO. MY FAVORITE COLOR IS PINK. AND I LOVE THE SMELL OF FRESH CUT GRASS. I DON’T LIKE ROSES ON VALENTINE’S DAY. IT’S CALLED SMALL TALK. TRY IT.

We took a look at your site (http://muffintopmommy.com/) recently (YOU DID? EEEH…I FEEL LIKE I NEED TO WASH MY BLOG IN BLEACH NOW…), and we are interested in a link exchange. (Editor’s note: Ok, first of all, Editor is me! Ahem, anyway, a link exchange is when you list other blogs you like to read on your blog…it’s called a blogroll. If you look on the right hand side of muffintopmommy under blogroll, you will see some funny ass blogs I love love to read. You should check them out…now! Ok, not now now, after you finish this post now!)

MIKIE THREE WAY (MAY I CALL YOU MIKIE THREE WAY? IT KINDA HAS A RING TO IT. KINDA MAKES YOU SOUND GANGSTA COOL WITH A SIDE OF DIRTY BIRD)….I NEED TO KNOW WHICH POST CONVINCED YOU MTM HAS ANYTHING IN COMMON WITH, “THE HORNY MATCHES”? THINK, THINK, THINK…OH! WAS IT THE ONE WHERE I BEG READERS TO TALK ME DOWN FROM THE LEDGE AFTER SWIMSUIT SHOPPING? OH! I KNOW….IT MUST BE THE ONE WHERE I COMPARE MY ARSE TO A GRIZZLY BEAR. WAIT. IT MUSTA BEEN THE HAWT PICTURE I POSTED OF MYSELF IN THAT SMOKING BUTTON DOWN  HOLDING THE BEER THE SIZE OF MY GIGUNDO HEAD ON VACA? MIKE, SERIOUSLY, I NEED TO KNOW FOR MARKET RESEARCH BECAUSE RIGHT NOW MY HUSBAND JUST PEED HIMSELF LAUGHING. HE WON’T BE LAUGHING WHEN HE’S CRYING FOR A TWO WAY NEVER MIND A THREE WAY. OH YES WAY!

Our offer is actually quite interesting , a 3 way (ENOUGH WITH THE THREE WAYS! LET’S REVIEW: SMALL TALK. DO I NEED TO SPELL IT OUT? SHOULD I GET DR. RUTH ON THE HORN?) link as opposed to a reciprocal link. You link to http://www.thehornymatches.com and we link to you on SexDatePersonals.com. We offer the best type of link exchange. Also, SexDatePersonals.com has a very nice directory (A VERY NICE DIRECTORY? LEMME GUESS WHO’S ON THAT HIT LIST…. DAVID DUCHOVNY, TIGER WOODS, JESSE JAMES AND THAT RANDOM DUDE WHO WAS MARRIED TO HALLE BERRY ….YEAH…..NO. I’M ON TEAM ELIN.)  that we have been building so you are sure to find a category there for your site (DON’T BET THE PENTHOUSE IN VEGAS ON THAT, BOYFRIEND). If not, please just make your suggestion to us. (I SUGGEST YOU CALL YOUR MAMA RIGHT AFTER YOU SCRUB WITH CLOROX. ACK!)

Here is our link info: BLABBITY BLAH PERVITY PERV LINK BLAH BLAH.

Have a great week (YOU OFFER ME A THREE WAY AND THEN THE BEST CLOSE YOU CAN MUSTER IS THE UBER GENERIC…HAVE A GREAT WEEK??? FOR REAL? SEE. I COULD DEAL WITH YOU BEING A PERV. I MEAN, WHATEVER FLOATS YOUR…UM, NEVER MIND. I’M JUST SAYING. FREE COUNTRY AND ALL THAT JAZZ. BUT YOU’RE NOT EVEN ORIGINAL. YOU’RE GIVING ME NOTHING TO WORK WITH HERE! I MEAN, AFTER YOU HAVE YOUR HOT THREESOMES DO YOU REALLY CHIRP, ”THAT WAS FUN GUYS! HAVE A GREAT WEEK! MEEP!”

DUDE, YOU’VE GOT NO GAME. NONE. AND THIS IS COMING FROM A MARRIED HAUSFRAU WITH A MUFFIN TOP.  I do hope that we can do business with you in the very near future. (ARE YOU PROPOSITIONING ME? DO BUSINESS WITH ME? I THINK I’LL SIGN OFF NOW BEFORE THE NH STATE POLICE SHOW UP AT MY DOOR AND THROW ME IN THE CLINK FOR SOLICITING. OR THROW YOU IN THE CLINK FOR SOLICITING AND ME IN THE CLINK FOR BEING A….SOLICITEE….WHATEVER. EITHER WAY, STEP OFF MY BLOG, PERV. NOBODY BREAKS UP MY CURRENT THREESOME…THAT’S RIGHT….I HAVE THREESOMES ALL THE TIME…ALL THE TIME!!! ME, THE HUBS, AND THAT CLICKER HE CRADLES EVERY NIGHT. SO SUCK IT! TAKE YOUR THREE WAY STFU SAMMIE AND SCRAM BEFORE I BEAT YOU WITH MY 3 IRON (THAT’S 3 IRON NOT 3 WOOD…. DAMN,  YOU REALLY ARE A DEPRAVED DOCTOR OF DEBAUCHERY!!)

Regards. (UM, NOT TO BE NITPICKY, BUT THAT SHOULD BE A COMMA, NOT A PERIOD AFTER ‘REGARDS’. BUT I IMAGINE YOU MIGHT HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS, SO, UM…HAVE A GREAT WEEK AND ENJOY YOUR STFU SAMMIE!)

Mike PERVITY PERV PERV

SEO Analyst (AND CHIEF PERV )
http://www.thehornymatches.com
sexdatepersonals.com

IT’S STFU SAMMIE FRIDAY.

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Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, STFU Friday, Uncategorized | Posted on 12-08-2010

Kind of a rough week around MTM land. So sorry to repeat STFU sammie you, my faithful readers, but this is the only thing I could muster this week. See you all next week.

Of all my past sammies, this is the only one that seems even remotely fitting to put out today.

Well, whaddya know?

The ice cream man hasn’t come a calling this week—at naptime, dinnertime, or even at all. Even though it was 90. In May. In New Hampshire. (Call Wharton and get that guy enrolled—he is one helluva businessman!)

The little mothercluckers must be reading my blog because none dared to cockadoodledoo at half crack 5 and baby actually slept til 7 (!) twice this week.

And my cell phone? Yeahh…..it still blows.  But! But! Now my *massive*(you number in the 100′s…yes, yes you do, you brilliantly fun muffintoppers) following knows of the evils of the wireless cell provider, AT&T. (Because that was a newsflash….next up, Lindsay Lohan gets jiggy with a pitcher of mojitos and misses court/filming a B movie/her sentence on the chain gang.)

The truth is? I have NO ONE to give an STFU sammie to this week.

Who knew THAT would happen?

The following is going to be shocking. Brace yourself. Everyone has been kind and cooperative this week. I’ve visited many stores, and every single cashier has been friendly and helpful. Everyone held doors open. People let me go in traffic! I even went to Kohl’s—and not only was grandmama not working, a cashier opened up a new line, just for me (me!), because I was waiting in line and then didn’t even try to get me to open a credit card.

I even emailed a transport company (one of those ones that delivers something that weighs thirty seven tons to your doorstop on behalf of whomever you purchased said gigundo bulky, item from) to ask if they could deliver my purchase by Friday (That’s STFU Friday to you!) and they emailed me back within 13 minutes and said it shouldn’t be a problem. About 10 minutes later, I got a phone call from them, and they scheduled it for Thursday (as in a day before I said I needed it) morning!

WHAT! THE WHAT? THE WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?

And they came. When they said they would. And they helped lug it into my house with my husband. And then flatly refused a tip.

EXACTLY WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???????????? AM I BEING PUNKED?????

There was the one day this week though….when I think I *might* have been slightly snarky myself. A few things went awry–that were no one’s fault, just the way stuff goes down in life, and I was feeling grumptasticly hormonal. (Fill in the blanks people, fill in the blanks.) I *might* have snapped at the hubs. I *might* have been short tempered with the offspring. I *might* have muttered, “Move it D-bag!” in traffic and someone in my care *might* have repeated it. (Sing with me now, “Mother of the year, da da da…”) And, it’s totally possible I threw a raging pity party for myself….in my head. (It was BYOB.)

When my husband came home from work “that day” (brave of him, huh?), he told me about the sister of his friend’s friend.

Who was 36. My age.

Who was married. Like me.

And had three kids. Me again.

And, who passed away from colon cancer.

Oh.

I’ve been thinking about this person, whom I don’t know, all week. Those terrible cliches about life being unfair, and too short, I decided are cliches for a reason—they’re true. Because life IS unfair and it IS too short for some people.

And so I decided this week, the STFU sammie goes to me, for being a whinybag the other day about stupid sh*& which seemed even more asinine and shameful after the news my husband shared.

It isn’t wrong to award people STFU sammies. It’s cathartic to award people STFU sammies. And hell yeah, people deserve STFU sammies. I’m sure by next Friday, someone will be on my hit list. Hell yeah, the ice cream man clanging his flipping bell at dinnertime is annoying, but it’s NOT the end of the world. And really? Letting your kid EAT ice cream for dinner once in a while isn’t even the end of the world. Perspective is a good thing.

So for now, I think I’ll eat my sammie, wish you all a happy and safe Memorial Day weekend, and I sure hope to see you all next week.

And p.s. Don’t forget to thank a veteran or soldier this week. It’s because of them I can run my mouth on this blog without fear of reprisal (unless my mum gets hold of some of these posts), wave my American flag (or any flag I want, for that matter), and even drink beer from a can on my front steps (classy…. and totally acceptable for a woman from the home of the free and the land of the brave!)

STFU SAMMIE….

5

Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in STFU Friday, Uncategorized | Posted on 05-08-2010

 

UM....GYM, TAN, LAUNDRY?

I know. I may have mentioned I’m on vaca. As in, completely unable and unwilling to scribe anything new and intelligible. I hasten to admit, I’ve had some crazy pleasant run ins with the ice cream man this week and have tipped him accordingly….because……..

1. Hello. It’s 2 PM at the beach. Totally appropriate time to come trolling for ice cream customers. Welcome even!

2. I have some nut allergy kids and ice cream dude (NO, he’s a dude. Even ask the hubs. He’s like a cool 20-something dude that you know rocks the truck by day so he can play in a cool band at night or something.)…anyway, ice cream dude could not have been nicer or more accomodating about helping me weed out the bad ice creams while high fiving the boys…..SO>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Let me clarify, the following *repeat* post is not about him….it’s about the wrongity wrong bad baddies who troll through the ‘hood at home…. read on!

The one thing about winter in New England I realize I’ve taken for granted? It’s quiet. But when the frost makes way for dew, when the loud ass birds come out, so does the ice cream man.

The rat bastard.

See, the ice cream man is the devil incarnate. He insists on trolling through my ‘hood every afternoon during naps and right at dinner time, blaring his insipid ice cream truck tunes. Hi, manners ice cream man…how ’bout you get some? (Seriously. Was the ice cream man raised in a frat house? I mean, a real one, not my frat house. What IS his problem?) I’m telling you, if he creeps by here one more time clanging that flipping bell, well….

I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But the ice cream man is going down.

I mean, how is it possible that my kids could be sitting here peacefully (subject to interpretation, but still) waiting for their *healthy* dinner, and the next minute be worked into a relative frenzy as the music gets louder and louder, and the truck gets closer and closer. (In their defense, I’m positive a tasty frozen treat is much more enticing than anything sketchy I’m slinging in my kitchen.) Not the point. Not.the.point!

“Mom, mom, mom, mom, mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, it’s THE.ICE.CREAM.MAAAAN!!!!!!!!”

You don’t say.

“Oh mommmmmmmeeeeeeee, wea-ah you?” They’re getting closer.

Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

“There you are! We couldn’t find you mommy! Why are you underneath the dining room table?”

Busted.

“THE ICE CREAM MAN IS HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRREEEEEEE! Didn’t you hear him, mummy?!”

“Oh no boys, that’s not the ice cream man, that’s noise coming from the tv!”

“But the tv isn’t on mummy.”

Shit. What are the odds?

“IT’S THE ICE CREAM MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN.”

Let’s take….one more stab at fight?

“Ohhhh,” I whisper. “The ice cream man. Are you sure? I think it’s just the neighbor kids playing some loud music.”

“NO, MUMMA, IT’S THUHHHHHHHH ICE CREAM MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN.”

You skanky ice cream slinger. You couldn’t at least come after dinner or before naps? I might have to stab you with a freeze pop. There is not a jury of my peers that would find me guilty.

Hell hath no fury like an angry hausfrau, desperate to maintain order in the asylum. You best check yoself before you wreck yoself, ice cream man.

Just then, just like a big freaking bell clangs in my head, I have a thought. Wouldn’t it just rock suburbia if an ice cream truck switched it up? Maybe it could come a callling after the kids had their dinner and baths, were in their jammies and tucked in for bed?

Instead of stocking bomb pops and Spiderman ice creams, they could serve up frosty brews, fine wine, and salt rimmed margaritas?

Ahh.

Suddenly, I have visions of parents running out of their homes with paper bills clutched between their over tired fingers, clamoring to get to the ice cream truck as Jimmy Buffett tunes dance in the warmth of the dark, summer air.

Wait a sec. I might be onto something. Can you see it? Bring me your hungry, your tired, your thirsty…middle aged, beaten down, overworked suburbanites, who will drop way more scratch on margaritas and martinis than $3 Dora ice cream pops. Really? It would be a public service because it would eliminate anyone from drinking and driving. Really? I’m just being altruistic.

Unlike…ice cream man! He? Can SHUT IT! The roving tempest in a teapot ICE CREAM MAN!

Oh yeah, ice cream man, after you eat up your BIG STFU Friday sammie, you going down! Mommy gonna beat you at your own game, suckah!

Can you HEAR ME NOW ice cream man?

SAVOR THE SEASON? CHECK YO’SELF BJ’S–IT’S SUMMER!

12

Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in STFU Friday, Uncategorized | Posted on 29-07-2010

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Muffintopmommy Disclaimer: A few of you who’ve seen this title have gotten, um, the wrong idea about what “BJ’s” is all about….(you dirty birdies, you!). BJ’s= BJ’s WHOLESALE Club…it’s like a Costco or Sam’s. I forgot BJ’s is not a nationwide chain, so I was causing quite the stir with my non-New England readers! C’mon, you might have known that’s not muffintopmommy’s schtick! So stop the presses–I’m still a hopeless nerdprudelosah!

Read on, muffintoppers!

xox,

MTM

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“Savor the season” beckons the cover of my new BJ’s Journal that arrived this week. In July. When it was 92 degrees in New Hampshire. The blazing sun bounced off my Caspar skin as I clutched my prize like a four year old with a lolly pop, wondering what budgetastic finds lay inside. Because you know I love me some warehouse shopping!

After schlopping through six months of winter, you bet your arse I’m savoring the season. Hats, mittens, ski pants, boots, runny noses be damned! Savoring. It’s what we’re all about here with our corn on the cob, lemonade, wt blow up pool/slide…..water ban and gigundo electric bills.

Savoring. Summer.

So I whip open my mag expecting to see glossy pics of some funtacular beach chairs or maybe a caprese salad recipe?  Some Italian ices? Riveting beach reads?

Annnnnd…..nothing.

Apples…. Page 1

Soups……Pages 3-5

School supplies. School supplies? ……Pages 8-9

What. What?

Apples + Soups + School Supplies = FALL.

YO, HOW 'BOUT THEM APPLES?

Fall, damnit!

Indignant, I flip back to the cover. “Lookey there.” I grit, for in the top right hand side, four teeny tiny block letters spell FALL. Sonofabitching bastards!

BJ’s….you’re dead to me.

How could you?  When we go so far back? Where’s the R-E-S-P-E-C-T? I vouched for you. On this very blog. Oh marone….you best check yoself, BJ’s. You need some schooling on your seasons. My four year old learned them in preschool this year. Whatisthematterwithyou?!?

Damn you, BJ’s, I haven’t even gone on my summer vacation yet. Remember? How much I’ve been living for it? Especially after the Wicked Witch of Cape Cod screwed up my original vacation plan?

When I fell on my arse on ice this winter, you know what got me through? Mental fortitude. I thought:

 1. Ahh, thank God for the junk in my trunk.

 2. I can do this. I’m a survivor. I can pick myself up from my bootstraps  Costco FUGGS, because I’m gonna be sitting racing around like a rabid animal on the beach in my bikini  Miracle Suit with a coldie warm juice box in only153 days!”

Yeah!

So, you will let me savor my summer. Every last week, day, minute, nanosecond of my grilled farm stand veggie, ocean breezey, Coppertone-y fun. It’s mah par-tay! Mah summah! So step OFF!

Look, I know it’s not just you.  Better Homes and Gardens? Yeah, you. I saw you, sneaking in the apple crisp recipe on page 150 of your August issue—that came in early July. Even my beloved Tarjay is taunting me, with its Crayola and lunch box ads. And  Kohl’s? I don’t need your stinking credit card and I don’t need no parka.

You all just need to stop rushing me.

Joie de vie? Stop and smell the hydrangeas? You follow? Fer crissakes, you’re like those insufferable parents who don’t let their kids be kids. Pushing them to do more and grow up too fast. Hold up, Jack! What’s the damn hurry? Let’s live today, today and worry about apple crisp in September after I’m sick of corn and tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and maybe wanna think about putting on a LL Bean knitted number to hide the muffo de toppo while I segue into hollering for the Pats and eating nachos. Okay?

And fall, please don’t take this all wrong because I love you too, I really do. You know that, right? I love the way you smell, the crisp air with maybe the hint of burning leaves at dusk. The way you sound….the crunchity crunch of leaves under my feet ensconced in toasty shoes. The way you look is an optical delight…your vibrant golds and burning reds. And do I have to say it again? You? Are the gateway to sweaters. *Swoon.*

YIKES, I DON'T THINK I'LL EVER BE READY FOR THIS SWEATER! BOOM BOOM POW!

But fall, it’s come to Jesus time, ‘kay? I’m just not ready for you yet. It’s not you. It’s me. I earned summer…with every nose I wiped, temperature I took under the glow of a nightlight, and snow boots I wrangled on a flailing boy. So I’m savoring it. WE ARE ALL GOING TO SAVOR THE FUN. SAVORTHEFUNSAVORTHEFUNSAVORTHEFUN! With dry noses and bare feet. Got it?

So… (I am not hysterical!) Here’s how it’s gonna go down, BJ’s. Imma gonna sit on the beach for week, tumble in the surf with my boys, crash my kite, clog my arteries with too much fried seafood and beer, whip some Scrabble ass on the hubs, and probably have the best sleeps I’ll have all year…..until then you just back the hell up and eat your STFU sammie. Might I suggest the half sammie/soup combo? I’ll even throw in apple crisp for dessert. You’ll just need to eat it at the beach, that’s all.

P.S. And don’t you dare be sending me a catalog with a holly wreath on it at Halloween. Just……NO!